


A Promise

by FieryEclipse



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Cute, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Fluff, M/M, Male Slash, Slash, a little bit painful though, after a fight, the wall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryEclipse/pseuds/FieryEclipse
Summary: Even after everything that's happened between them in the past, even when it gets difficult and he wants to give up... Peter Petrelli just can't turn his back on the man he once promised to save.





	A Promise

Everything was still. Dark. Quiet. The black void of the outside word leaked in through the walls, but at least here the edges of isolation were numbed by the promise of something more.

 

Peter Petrelli slipped through the front door of the apartment, ensuring to close it over with the barest of _clicks_ in his wake. Inside, he hovered on the threshold, face stinging from the cold wind and eyes adapting to the near total darkness while he gathered the courage to move.

 

The place hadn't changed at all. Not that he'd even expected it to. As always, it smelled warm and slightly musty: the scents of old pages and hardback covers; of dark wood furnishings; of dinner and coffee and waffles; all interlaced with a faint metallic tang of a watchmaker's spoils. And even though he felt like an exile intruding in this shelter... Peter couldn't deny that it still smelled like home.

 

Gut churning, he waded his way blindly through undisturbed piles of books, trinkets and time pieces with the precision of only someone who had spent too much time amongst them, hesitating only when he reached the deepest alcove of the apartment. Here, he balled his hands into fists to stop his hands from shaking. Pulled his eyebrows low to stop them from twisting and revealing across his face the conflicted guilt that he was trying to hide. Standing hidden in the shadows, the empath's chest compressed as his eyes soaked in the sight of the only reprieve from this empty world.

 

Sylar was asleep. Sound asleep. Blissfully so, in fact, on the far edge of a single bed that somehow looked too big for one person. Sprawled out on his back with one arm thrown across the mattress and the other over his head, the recovering killer looked every bit the display of serene innocence. Looked so different than the last memory that had refused to stop haunting Peter. No longer tall and imposing and furious, shrouded in defensive words and sarcastic desperation, it was easy to forget that this was the same guy who had said such awful things, before. The same guy who Peter had finally stormed out on.

 

Right here, it was easy to imagine the fight might never even have happened. Except for the fact that the skin around Sylar's eyes and nose was tinted with the fading flush of tears.

 

Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. Then a shaking, slow exhale filtered out of Peter's lips, and he relented. He kicked his shoes off and crept the remaining distance to the bed, knowingly, willingly, allowing the siren to lure him to his death for the countless time. As silently as a dream, the young man crawled slowly onto the mattress, unwavering in his crusade until he held himself curled over the sleeping murderer with only thin, warm sheets dividing them.

 

Looking down upon that heavy profile, now soft and unguarded in sleep, Peter almost forgot why he'd left in the first place. He almost _wanted_ to forget. God, he'd missed this space...

 

The last of all pretence drifted from his features as he dipped his head, tickling a feather-light trail up Sylar's exposed neck with the tip of his nose. Drawing with the lightest touch of cold skin, he sighed softly as he nuzzled the other man's stubbed jawline.

 

There was a faint huff. A stirring of long limbs. Then everything paused as the dreaming man woke.

 

For an endless moment there was nothing more than the sounds of two thumping hearts and countless clocks ticking nearby in unison. Then, finally, a stunned, sleepy mumble broke the silence.

 

“...You came back?”

 

That voice sent Peter's heart rattling painfully around his ribcage. Breathing in the scent of warm, human skin that he had come to know so well, he continued his gentle ministrations on Sylar's neck and collarbone if only to avoid looking at his face. It felt like forever since they'd last been together, and he had missed this man terribly amidst the gaping expanse of nothingness. But Peter had only been alone for a few days. He couldn't imagine staying away for any longer.

 

Nodding, he let out a resigned breath that caressed Sylar's throat. “I came back.”

 

He didn't elaborate just yet. Didn't cast up the fight or Sylar's heated exclamations which had finally sent him over the edge. All the things he'd wanted to say, all the words and expressions and arguments he'd practised over and over on the journey evaporated, now that he'd actually made it back here. He hadn't forgotten the fury that had possessed him since he'd last set eyes on this man, it just... didn't seem to matter as much anymore. And he couldn't bring himself to shatter their reunion.

 

Was it wrong to disregard their many issues like this? Or was it for the best to just let the last encounter slide, along with so many others marring the past, and just enjoy this moment for what it was? There was nothing else to say about what had happened anyway, too many words had already been exchanged on the matter. Peter knew he regretted his role in it. And he was pretty sure Sylar felt the same way in return.

 

The man in question shuffled as he roused further, slumber and confusion clinging avidly to his vocal chords. “Why...?”

 

Peter couldn't answer him fully. Not just yet. He wasn't ready. So instead he just continued to hide his face and sighed into the crook of Sylar's neck. “'Cause it's cold out there.”

 

Again, there was a stretch of nothing. Then the watchmaker moved languidly under Peter, and he feared his olive branch and chilled nose were being rejected... but then lean arms curled around his back and pulled him in close to Sylar's side. The former villain dragged the empath's body inches across the mattress to put him in place, as if he was a child or couldn't do it correctly by himself. Peter hadn't known such manhandling in any other relationship, even now he still couldn't decide if it was endearing or patronizing; but today, right now, the hold on him was like a fire greeting him in from a mighty blizzard. And he needed that light desperately. So he let go the last of his reservations and melted into the heat of the embrace, his eyes sliding closed of their own accord.

 

They didn't need to say more. The pair lay quietly intertwined in the dark for a long while: Peter shivering as he warmed up, now gently, absently mouthing at his companion's shoulder, while Sylar's fingers lazily played along his spine. It was the perfect facade of tranquillity, soft on the surface but roiling within, for Peter knew he wasn't done for tonight. Sure, he could bury the hurts and move on from the past, but he'd learned the hard way that the future can never be outrun. And the unspoken matter looming over them was one that had to be put to rest.

 

By the stillness and steadiness of Sylar's breathing, Peter might've thought the guy had drifted off to sleep again, if not for the continuous motions of his hands. But how could he be so calm about this? Did he truly not care why Peter had returned? Was it so obvious that he didn't even need to press the matter? Or did he just not want to know? Sylar seemed so at peace with things between them now, as if every crack had magically been fixed and they could go back to business as normal – whatever the hell “normal” could constitute as in this life.

 

But Peter couldn't stand the thought of that. Not without first voicing the _real_ reason he'd turned his back on never ending, vacant streets of purgatory to return to this very spot. He couldn't let uncertainty poison their horizon.

 

The words took their time to form on his lips. Then echoed on forever throughout the dead city.

 

“I'm not leaving this place without you.”

 

Sylar's hands and breathing froze. Darkness seemed to press down heavier than ever as the world constricted around the two lost souls at the centre of it. Both bodies grew hotter where they met, Sylar lay as still as a statue while Peter chewed over the rest of his pledge, husking it against the former's skin with great difficulty.

 

“I came to get you outta here, and that's what I'm gonna do.” The voice didn't sound like his own. The words didn't sound like those of a loyal, grieving brother. But Peter just frowned through the pain, swallowed past the lump in his throat and soldiered on with the famous resolve he'd been born with. “Even after... everything. Even when it gets... difficult... We're in this thing together. And I won't leave you behind.” Sylar's heart seemed to stop and stutter below Peter's ear, so close that the aftershocks pulsed through his own veins and burned behind his eyes. “...I promise.”

 

He didn't even know how he managed to hold onto his voice long enough to finish – perhaps it was easier when not sizzling under the intensity of Sylar's gaze? But then the repentant murderer twitched for the first time since Peter had spoken. With no lingering traces of sleep dulling his movements, he untangled himself from Peter enough to pull back and stare... stare... stare so boldly, so vulnerably, that the younger man felt fire blaze across the entire surface of his skin.

 

The guy's eyes were faintly bloodshot, stained pink from earlier tears of isolation, as Peter knew his were also; his mouth slightly open; his brow heavy in question. Peter couldn't draw breath, neither could Sylar, and not for the first time the empath could see every single one of the other man's thoughts written so clearly on his face. Shock, disbelief, terror, relief... it was surreal that he used to not be able to understand this person. But Peter had finally unlocked the key to the code, and now he could read the language that had before only been indecipherable shapes and squiggles. Through this lens, what once was impossible to distinguish was all so clear... the shapes were not a haphazard mess at all. They were intricate and complex and broken, yes, but together they were beautiful. And as for Sylar, himself: the villain, the monster, Nathan's murderer... he was beautiful, too.

 

It was impossible to tell how much time passed within that stare before Sylar dragged them both out of it. He licked his lips, and when he spoke his shallow voice cracked. “Th-thank you.”

 

It was only a small thing, and so was the humble smile that followed. However, in a sea of endless nothing, “small” can mean everything... and it did to Peter Petrelli. It meant _more_ than everything to have this progress between them in the wake of the fight and subsequent divide, something both as easy and unbearable as simple _understanding_.

 

Peter smiled back weakly for the first time in days, as much as he could manage while his emotions were wringing themselves into shreds inside. And when the mattress dipped, a burning hand grasped his jaw and Sylar leaned in, he greeted those lips with his own. Like coming home, this kiss was familiar in every aspect: the taste of it, the texture, the quiet but insistent pressure, the way two mouths could fit together as if it should never have once been forbidden...

 

The kiss was tiny, soft, simple. However, the motion covered more ground than a hundred words could hope to achieve. It probably should have terrified Peter how good it felt to be back here. It would have, once. He should have hated himself for it but he didn't. And he didn't hate Sylar either. Not anymore.

 

The former enemies broke apart gently, breathing in the same air. Without opening their eyes, they settled down to sleep right there in the narrow bed, entwined comfortably in each other's space as if they'd never been apart.

 

Maybe it was because he was still suffering from days of isolation and a wounded heart, but Peter didn't care that things were far from perfect between them. Or that all was not yet forgiven. It didn't matter that the most recent unresolved fight would simply join the many others that had come before. It didn't matter that he was in too deep with the man who had taken his brother from him.

 

What mattered was that he wasn't alone. That Sylar wasn't either. And that they could somehow overlook all the reasons why they shouldn't and just lie here together despite their world raging outside, warm and welcome and wanted for another endless night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone, I hope this oneshot might compensate for the long waits between chapters of Tongues of Fire ^.^ Sorry about the delays, I am still working on it of course - it just takes a lot longer to craft a 30 page chapter than to write this X) 
> 
> I wanted to work on this piece because I've not written a oneshot in a while... also I've been missing me some fluffy-ish Petlar hehe. I hope you like this little story – thanks for reading ^.^


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